


Four Last Songs: Maybe I'm Amazed

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Series: Four Last Songs [3]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, McLennon, SEE END NOTES FOR DETAILS IF YOU NEED TRIGGER WARNINGS., Strong Language, mature themes, much angst, sexual innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12677781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: Making music on Paul's birthday in 1974, 1986, and 1992. Third of four installments.This story is an AU. The timeline does not line up perfectly with events the Beatles' RL history. Some events still occur but at different times and for different reasons. Other events don't happen, or happen to different people.This is not, by any means, what I "wished had happened." It's an exploration of how the Beatles' mythology would have been different had John not been the first to die.





	1. Ringo

**Author's Note:**

> If you need detailed trigger warnings, please see the end notes and read responsibly. I don't put them in tags because they are spoilers. Thank you.

June 18, 1974

 

Los Angeles was a terrible town for a drunk to live in. 

While Ringo appreciated how easy it was to find drinking buddies in L.A., there was also the matter of Too Much Fucking Sunshine. Every morning it was an unavoidable curse. It poured in around the curtains and slithered up his cheek, poking him in the eye like a fiery drumstick.

"Mmmph," he grunted with a voice that sounded as if he'd gargled with broken glass. He turned over to escape the glare and found himself falling face down on the floor. 

So, not in a bed, then. 

He flailed around until he was sitting more or less upright, then shaded his eyes and tried to figure out where he was. 

Someone's living room. Possibly his own, possibly not. Too fucking much light. 

A ginger-haired man was sprawled nearby on his back, bottle still lightly gripped between swollen fingers. Harry Nilsson, right, they'd all been out on a bender last night, hadn't they? 

Another body lay prone across a row of dining room chairs. From the mass of dark curls Ringo could tell it was Micky Dolenz, who'd been hanging around with them the last few days in a drug-and-booze haze that rivalled their own.  
  
Now, THAT boy was fucked up. 

Ringo remembered Paul's amusement after the publicity party the Beatles had thrown for the Monkees. "Micky actually brought an autograph book for me to sign, can you believe it?" Paul had laughed, but fondly, bemused at how star-struck the young man had been. 

Paul. 

Paul was the reason Ringo had so much to drink the night before, although normally he needed no excuse to go through a bottle of scotch or two in a night. Paul had been on Ringo's mind a lot lately. 

When Ringo's brain cleared enough for him to recognize his surroundings, he noted with amusement that it was his own house - or at least the one he was renting - and that he had slept on the sofa for reasons he couldn't recall. Combing his hair with one hand and covering an enormous yawn with the other, Ringo padded toward his bedroom, hoping to find a nubile young thing in there. 

What he found instead was John Lennon, leaning against the headboard and smoking a cigarette. Tendrils of smoke curled through the honeyed sunshine, almost concealing his face. "Morning," he said mildly.

"Yeah. Uh..." Ringo struggled to remember why John was in L.A. at all, much less in Ringo's bed. "When'd you get in?" 

John waggled his eyebrows. "You're pretty far gone, son. I've been living in California for six months. You called me a couple of days ago, remember? Wanted me to play on your album?" 

Oh. That. The Plan. 

"Yeah, right." Ringo scratched his head and tried to open his eyes further. He noticed a lump in the bed. "Who's that? Yoko?" 

"Jesus, Ringo," John muttered, "you're either still drunk or your memory's gone to shit. This is May. She works for Yoko. I've introduced her to you a dozen times already this weekend." John pulled back the covers to reveal his companion smiling shyly at Ringo while clutching a sheet over her bare breasts. 

Leave it to Yoko, Ringo thought sourly, to even pick out John's mistress for him. 

"Hi," May said, a little breathlessly, obviously embarrassed to be seen mostly-naked in Ringo's own bed. "I, uh, can make coffee or something." 

"That'd be nice," Ringo said. He partially averted his gaze while the young woman slid out of bed and pulled on John's t-shirt and a pair of pyjama pants. When they were alone again, Ringo continued. "What's going on today?" 

John shuddered as he adjusted his glasses. "We're recording. And it's Paul's birthday. You booked a studio on his fucking thirty-second birthday. Or what it would've been, if he hadn't..." His eyes darkened and he looked toward the curtains at the window, seeing something in his memory that Ringo didn't want to think about. 

"You don't have to--" 

"Yeah." John stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray he was holding on his lap. "Yeah, I do. That's the one thing we all agreed on when the band was splintering - we have to take care of you." 

Affronted, Ringo ran a hand through his hair. It was greasy; he couldn't remember the last time he'd bathed. "I'm a big boy, John, I don't need you to 'take care' of me. I thought you'd like a chance to play, that's all." 

It actually wasn't all, but Ringo wasn't about to spill those beans, especially not when he was suffering from such a hideous, throbbing hangover. 

John smirked at him. "You keep thinking that, if it makes you feel any better. I brought the blue Strat, will that do?" 

Ringo nodded. He knew better than to try and match wits with John. "Thanks. I'm gonna grab a shower before we go. I think there's a driver coming at noon." 

Before John could answer, May came in bearing a tray with three cups of coffee. "I made some for them, too," she said, inclining her head toward the door. She handed a steaming cup to Ringo, then took the other two to the bed and gave one to John, who leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. 

Ringo slipped away and took a fast shower, then changed into clean clothes and went to the living room to wait for John. Harry was still unconscious but Micky had evidently consumed his coffee and buggered off for the day. Sighing, Ringo put a blanket over Harry's inert body just as John joined him. "Is May coming?" 

John shook his head, shaggy strands of his hair falling into his eyes. "She's gonna keep an eye on Harry. He looks like shit." 

"We all do," Ringo sighed. John was thin, unshaven, and his eyes were bleary with more than alcohol and lack of sleep. A memory tickled the back of Ringo's brain: John, two nights ago, plastered off his ass, wearing a sanitary pad on his brow and asking a waitress, "Don't you know who I am?" 

Her response had been: "You're some asshole with a Kotex on your head."

When had they gotten to be this fucked up? 

For that matter, when had he gotten to be so fucked up that John seemed like a steadying influence? 

They were quiet on the car ride to the studio. John nodded off against the window, snapping awake when the car stopped. The driver opened the door and handed John his guitar, which he accepted with a curt "ta" and a nod. Ringo led the way into the building and paused outside the studio with his hand on the doorknob. 

"What?" John asked when Ringo made no move to open the door. 

"It's not just us," Ringo said, his heart beating faster than normal. His mouth felt dry. Nervous. He was nervous. 

One of John's eyebrows lifted. "What've you done?" he asked. 

Praying to a God he didn't really believe in anymore that this wouldn't end in a spectacular dust-up, Ringo cracked the studio door slightly ajar. The unmistakable wail of George's guitar spilled out into the hallway like an ocean wave. He was playing snatches of "Hey Jude." 

Jesus. 

John's eyes went narrow and cold behind the lenses of his glasses. "That's not fucking funny, Ringo," he snarled, fingers tightening around the handle of his guitar case until his knuckles blanched with the strain. 

"It's not meant to be." Sighing, Ringo opened the door all the way. George was sitting on the floor with his legs folded like a pretzel, dark hair spilling over his shoulders. He stood up when he saw Ringo and had his arms open to hug him when he noticed that John was with him. 

The confusion and distress on George's face made Ringo wonder if bringing the three of them together was such a good idea after all. 

When John asked George, "Did you put him up to this?" in a dry, accusatory voice, Ringo almost laughed. The first words John had said to George in three years, and this was what he came up with? 

George shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together. 

"No!" interjected Ringo. "He didn't know - do you think he'd have come here if I'd said 'oh, come and do a gig with Johnny and me?'" 

He realized that they weren't alone, that a couple of embarrassed-looking engineers had frozen in place where they had been setting up microphones. "Could we have the room, please?" Ringo asked in what he hoped was a neutral tone. The other men looked relieved as they scuttled out of the studio and shut the door behind them. 

"Fuck." John reached into his pocket for cigarettes and a lighter. He shoved a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, not offering one to Ringo or George. 

"Why do you...?" started Ringo, then he took a deep breath to steady himself. "It was my wife he had the affair with." It had lasted about six months before the lunacy wore off and the prodigals returned to their spouses, but by then the damage had become irreversible. Ringo sighed and rubbed the aching places on either side of his nose. "I forgave him. I forgave both of 'em. So why are you angrier at George than I am?" 

John seemed to consider the question for a moment, his dark eyes looking past Ringo's shoulder. Finally he stared directly at George and said, "Because there are lines we can't cross, no matter how much we want to. We can cheat our asses off, but not with each other's women. The day it started, I told you it was incest. I still think it was. How Pattie forgave you is beyond--" 

"She didn't," George said, his voice laced with pain. "She left me." 

Ringo backed away to let John and George have this discussion without him. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and sat down behind his drum kit. It felt eerily familiar yet completely wrong without Paul. 

"She's living with Eric," continued George. 

John pushed his glasses up all the way and peered at George. The fight seemed to have gone out of him. "I'm...I didn't know." 

George gave him a brief nod as if acknowledging that this would be as much of an apology as anyone ever got from John. "She's filed for divorce. And you know Mo and Ringo are divorcing now, right?" 

"Yeah." John took a long drag on his cigarette. "So I'm the only one who's still married. Who'd have thought, eh?" 

Ringo snorted. George and John turned to glare at him. He waved a brush at them and mouthed "sorry," but by then both John and George had dissolved into helpless laughter at the sheer insanity of the situation. 

"Look, John," George said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "We're here, and Ringo has a song he wants us to play on, and it's our Paul's birthday. What do you say we have a go at the music instead of each other?" 

John's expressive face went through a number of changes as he thought it over. Ringo saw a tremor on his lips at the thought of Paul, saw him frown as he remembered seeing George with Maureen, then smile at the memory of making music with his friends. Finally he shook back his hair and turned to Ringo. "So, what's this song of yours that you can't do without us?" 

Smiling widely, almost shaking with relief, Ringo jumped out from behind his kit and handed his friends the lyric and chord sheets to "All By Myself." John's and George's hands formed identical chords in the air as they read. John chuckled and pointed out some lines to George.

> _I work out my problems,  
>  __I'm starting all over again._  

Within half an hour they were jamming the way they had when they first got together, grinning madly and egging one another on to try this rhythm, to do another solo, to be better and better and better. Ringo beamed at the other two and he found himself playing so hard that he was sweating with the effort. 

They hit a groove so powerful that George threw back his head and started laughing with the joy of it. He exchanged a look with John and the two of them turned to their right. 

Where Paul should have been. 

The music stuttered to a halt. 

John's hands shook as he laid his guitar on the floor and covered his eyes. His chapped lips formed the word "Paul" but no sound came out. Instantly Ringo was on his feet, headache be damned, and he held John by the arms. "It's okay. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, this was a terrible idea--" 

"No," John said thickly. "I'm actually glad. I mean, I miss Paul, but to play with you guys again." He nodded at George, smiling, but his eyes were solemn. "I've missed you. I started to call I don't know how many times." 

"Believe me, I understand. I was in New York last week and stopped by to see you," George said drily. "I didn't know you were gone, so what I actually ended up doing was dropping in on Yoko by accident." His bitter smile indicated what he thought of that. "She wants you back, you know." 

Ringo glanced at John, whose spine straightened as he listened to George's words. 

"She says you'll need to move back to New York, of course, and end things with this girl. Yoko wants you to date her - to 'court' her, as she put it." George's thin face screwed up with distaste. "Then she'd consider starting over." 

John didn't respond for several long moments. "I love her. But I don't want to go back to her. We aren't healthy together. This constant togetherness doesn't work; we're terrible for each other. But I have to go back." Looking miserable, John hung his head. "She still hasn't told me." 

George and Ringo exchanged a confused glance. "Told you...?" George asked.

"What was in the letter." John took a shaky breath. "Paul's letter, the night he...the one you brought to me. She burned it. She read it first, then threw it in the fire."

"That bitch!" George snapped.

"Was she trying to protect you?" Ringo asked, confused. He didn't care for Yoko and never had, but he couldn't understand why she would do such a thing. 

"Don't you see?" George asked. "She knew it was the end of the group when Paul died. Without all of us, who knew what John would want to get up to next? She was using what was in the letter for leverage to keep you with her, wasn't she, John?" 

"I wouldn't have left her," John whispered. "Christ, I needed her so much...she didn't have to do that. She was always so jealous of Paul and me." He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked down at his lap. "Paul was...we...oh, God, how do I say it?" 

"You don't have to," George said gently as he set his guitar down and put his hand on John's forearm. "We know, Johnny." 

John's expression as he looked up at George was one of pure shock. When he turned away, Ringo grabbed his other arm and held tightly. "We were young and stoned, but we weren't stupid. Or deaf, in all those hotel suites." 

"You never said anything," John said, sounding dazed. 

Ringo shrugged. "Not our business. He kept you focused, you kept him feeling needed." He regretted the words the instant they left his lips, knowing they were all hearing Paul's plaintive voice in their heads.

> _When you told me you didn't need me anymore,_  
>  _Well you know I nearly broke down and cried.  
>  __When you told me you didn't need me anymore,  
>  __Well you know I nearly broke down and died._  

"Even when we were kids, doing, y'know--" George made a jerking-off motion, his mouth twisted in an embarrassed grin. "You two never took your eyes off each other, like you were starving for something only the two of you could taste. I didn't understand until years later, when you absconded to Paris with him." 

John's eyes were wide with disbelief. No wonder, when he'd thought he had kept such an intensely personal secret only to find that his friends had seen right through him. Ringo hugged him close for a moment, wishing he had a better vocabulary. "You loved him and he loved you, and everything we had in those years was because of that. You have to admit, that was good stuff." 

"But did he love me, really?" John asked, his voice thin and strained. 

Ringo couldn't believe that John still doubted. "I know in my heart that he did. You don't need the note, you don't need Yoko to tell you if he did or not." Privately, Ringo wondered if Yoko would just make something up to keep John in her life, but he left that idea unspoken. 

"Go back to her if you want to live with her," George advised, looking deeply into John's lost, confused eyes. "But if you don't, if the only reason you want to go back is because of what she knows, then you don't have to. We know, too, Johnny, we KNOW how much he loved you, and if you can believe us, then you can make a decision based purely on whether or not you want to be with Yoko." 

John seemed to be contemplating the scuffed toes of his trainers, then he lifted up his head with a sly look on his expressive face. "I'd better stick with you lot. The trouble you boys get into when I'm not about, it's a scandal!" He clucked his tongue in an exaggerated mimicry of his Aunt Mimi, which made Ringo laugh. George's mouth formed a genuine smile that lit up the room. 

"You can stay at mine until you figure out what to do," Ringo offered. 

"Or mine, if you'd like to come back to England," put in George. 

John spared them both a fond look. "A little of both, I think. Y'know, Julian played on a track for me, he's a cracking good drummer. Maybe you could work with him a bit, Ringo?" Ringo happily nodded. "And some guitar with you, too, George, since you actually know how the bloody things work?" 

"Of course." George patted John on the back. "Now, let's get back to playing before they kick us out of here for not getting anything done. That okay, Ringo?" 

Ringo had never been more okay with anything in his life. 

"Let's lay something down for Paul, eh, fellas?" shouted John, sounding at last like the John of old. 

The fog lifted as Ringo half-danced back to his drums. He had what he needed: not pills or booze, not even women. He had his friends and his music, and he couldn't think of a better way to honor Paul's memory than to play his heart out.  

***


	2. George

June 18, 1986

  

There wasn't a studio anywhere that George would rather use than his own. He had chosen every stick of furniture, all of the equipment, everything that made it look and sound warm. As he set up for the day's session, he thought long and hard about how he wanted the guitars and drums to sound. 

And the bass. 

Paul's Höfner hung on the wall in a place of honour. George didn't have the heart to re-string it to be used by a right-hander. He couldn't imagine anyone deserving to play such a historical artifact, anyway. He was less anguished about the Fender and had it re-strung to use himself. Something of Paul's energetic playing always emanated from the fretboard to George's fingers, and the few times he'd recorded himself on the instrument, he had felt a warmth peculiar to his memories of Paul. 

Olivia went along with his flights of fancy as she always did, but with the familiar roll of her dark brown eyes. She and Dhani were practical, earthly people. George loved his family beyond all measure. 

He also loved his Beatle family and the love they were renewing. He, John, and Ringo had made a habit of doing something musically together every year on Paul's birthday. Even if they ended up not recording a note, they never missed the occasion. Some years it was the only day the three of them spent together; in other years they were almost living out of each others' pockets again. 

Carefully, George pulled the drop cloth off of the drums he always left out for Ringo. After drying out, Ringo had married Barbara and they were living in Los Angeles. She was good for him, a no-nonsense woman like Olivia. George respected her, respected them both, and it had hurt a little when Ringo joked about "keeping your hands off this wife, if you please." 

He knew he deserved that, and that Maureen deserved the nice life she was having with her new husband. Of all the things George regretted in the years since the Beatles ended, the heaviest burden was that he had given in to his urges toward his best friend's wife. He'd paid the price, having the position reversed when Pattie finally, finally gave in to Eric's persistent suit. 

Pattie cropped up in his thoughts now and again, each time with more fondness for the good times and less pain about the bad. He hoped his Pisces Lady would find peace. 

"Bloody hell, George, your Dhani looks EXACTLY like you!" John's voice broke into George's reverie as he strode into the studio, all long legs and confidence. His demeanor was so much like the John of Hamburg that George had to blink back a sudden tear or two before hugging him close. 

"You look great," George said, and it was true. John looked as if he'd gotten some sun. While his hair had gone grey at the temples, his eyes were bright and lively and his smile was truly happy. 

"So do you. And seriously, your kid could BE you. People say Julian looks like me, but Dhani...he's a carbon copy of his old man." 

George had seen Julian recently at a gallery opening. He did resemble John in many ways, but his face was softer, his eyes and mouth more vulnerable. And, weirdly, his voice sounded like Paul's. 

Which reminded George about one of the many things on their schedule for the day. He pointed John at the Fender bass. John shot him a nasty glare but George was undeterred. "Your turn, mate. My album, I get to play guitar." 

"Fair enough," sighed John with an overexaggerated flip of his hair. He picked up the instrument and plucked the strings. "You really have kept it in good nick." 

That bass was precious to George, but he wasn't about to start that conversation today. "Just see what you can do with it on this." He handed John a lyric sheet with chord symbols peppered all over it. 

"'When We Was Fab?' You old softy." John fingered some of the patterns, connecting the bass lines in an imitation of Paul's lyrical playing. "What are you planning to overdub?" 

"Strings, like in 'Strawberry Fields.' Might get the girls to sing some backing vocals." 

Though they were all in their forties, George still called the original Beatle Wives "the girls," much to everyone's amusement. John snickered. "Can we put Mo and Pattie in the same room?" 

"Don't see why not - they've made up, even if they're not close as they used to be. Mo and Cynthia still are, though. Would it bother you, if Cyn sang?" George tried to influence John's reaction. "It's gonna be a single, something to benefit Linda's thing." 

That got John's approval. "She's sent some letters explaining the hospitals she wants to endow. It's high time we had clinics for people like me, who get into drinks or drugs and can't handle the pressure, not just stuff us away in someone's attic to go cold turkey." He wagged his eyebrows at George. "Not that I'm complaining about your hospitality - you're a great pillow-fluffer-upper - but that was rougher than it needed to be." 

George privately agreed but decided to steer the conversation elsewhere. "So, Bachelor Beatle - seeing anyone? Girls? Boys?" 

John's smile faded as he caressed the neck of the bass. "There never were 'boys,' George. It was only ever Paul. I was Maccasexual." He stilled his hands and looked into George's eyes with a thin smile. "And no girls lately, either. The young ones all think I'm their Magical Musical Uncle and the old ones know enough about me to keep a safe distance." 

"Ah. Um." This was going to be harder than George expected. "It's just that...well, Pattie and Eric hit the buffers. She's living in a tiny flat in London, all by herself. And you two always had a special kind of friendship, so..."

To his surprise, John started laughing. "Christ, you're transparent. Pattie's amazing. She's a cracker and I think the world of her, don't get me wrong, but she's not a joint; you can't just pass her around for your friends to have a puff!" 

George interlaced his fingers and stretched, wincing when the knuckles popped. "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound ridiculous. I just hate to see her unhappy." 

"If you think I have it in me to make anyone happy, ever, then I have to wonder if we've ever even MET." 

"I think you need to be happy with yourself, first. You have so much love in you - I hate to see it going to waste." 

John blushed at the compliment. He fumbled with the tone knob - a fruitless endeavor, since the bass wasn't yet hooked up to an amp - and he had a faraway look in his eyes that George found endearing. He gave John a moment's privacy, then looked up to find Ringo standing in the doorway. 

"About time you noticed I was in the room," Ringo groused, but he grinned widely as he ruffled George's hair and reached out to hug John. He was holding an old audiotape box that he carefully kept out of John's range of vision. 

George deftly took the box and placed it next to the reel-to-reel tape recorder in the bookcase. Later. They'd deal with it later. 

Ringo hopped up on the little dais that held his kit. "Play me what you've got, fellas," he instructed as he sorted through the sticks and brushes laid out like surgical instruments in front of him. 

George sang his way through the piece, accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar. By the time he reached the second verse, Ringo was tapping along and John was finding his way around the bass. They passed around some ideas, finally recording a rhythm track, then adjourned to the garden for a tea break. 

No one remembered who was the first to bring their records to the little chapel next to Paul's grave, but there was a large collection spread out on the altar. Ringo's "Old Wave" was the most recent; neither John nor George had written or recorded solo work in several years. John ran his hand over the cover of Julian's "Valotte." George remembered how badly it had hurt John not to be asked to take part in his son's first solo outing, but the two of them had never truly reconciled. 

Noticeably absent was the only Beatle-related release of 1986, Yoko's album "Season of Glass." The front cover was a photo of the glasses John had worn when Paul died, the lenses coated with Paul's blood, and on the back Yoko was photographed wearing John's bloodstained clothes. The reaction was immediate and visceral; the album was pulled from shelves around the world, and Yoko had retreated into the Dakota. 

John had given a lukewarm public defense of his ex-wife, citing the terrors she had been through as a child in war-torn Japan. Privately he had offered apologies to Linda, Heather, and Mary, and had provided anonymous funding for the mental health clinics they were sponsoring in Paul's memory. 

George and Ringo had taken their own steps after the debacle. 

"Let's go back outside where it's sunny," George suggested, raising an eyebrow at Ringo and giving John a little push toward the door. They walked out and stood at Paul's grave, covered in magnificent scarlet roses in full bloom. John crouched in front of the little marble blackbird and placed his palm on its head. Ringo and George each touched him on the back as Ringo started to speak.

"We've got something to tell you," he started hesitantly. "A couple of things, actually. We, uh, we went to see Yoko. After the record came out and all the shit went down." 

John sat down gracelessly and wrapped his arms around his shins. He looked up at his two friends, his eyes wide with surprise and suspicion. 

"We know how scared she was after you left, that she was afraid she'd be poor again. It doesn't excuse what she did - I mean, that line you're not supposed to cross was about fifty miles behind her - but we decided to offer her money." 

"You...you gave her money?" John took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I don't understand." 

"We bought something from her," George said, his mouth twisting in revulsion at the memory of that meeting. "We bought the film and the negative. The one her detective took at your house, the day Paul...the day he died. Yoko was desperate for money after the album failed. She was going to try and sell them to the press, but we offered twice as much and she handed them over to us." 

John shuddered violently, his eyes filling with tears. "She used to try and get me to watch it, but I didn't need to, I'd just close my eyes and I could see it all happening again." 

"No one's going to do that to you ever again, Johnny," George murmured. "It's all over now. We burned it all - film, negative, the lot." 

"Did you...did you watch it?" John asked in a thin, anguished voice. 

As George shook his head, Ringo said, "I did. Once." 

George stared at him in horror. "What? Why?" 

Ringo shuffled his feet, not meeting either man's gaze. "I've always felt guilty that I didn't go through what either of you did. I wasn't there when it happened, and I didn't see him, after." He sighed. "I wanted to share the pain somehow, so I watched it. John, there wasn't anything you could've done, it happened so fast." 

Oh, Ringo. 

John covered his face with his hands. "How much did it cost you? I want to pay you back..."

"Not telling," George said. It had been a huge sum, but knowing what peace John would find without that film hanging over his head was worth it. "But I will tell you something that you should know." He sat on his heels so he was eye-level with John. "I talked to Peter Brown. He told me he steamed open all the letters before he brought them to Ringo's house that night - he wanted to make sure they didn't have anything in them that would...that would make us more upset than we already were. Then he sealed them up again." 

Suddenly John's hands were around George's wrists, holding tightly. His eyes were enormous. "So he knew what Paul wrote to me? Oh, my God. George, if you know, then please..." 

George opened his mouth to say the words, but tears choked him. Ever since Peter had told him the contents of the note, he had planned how he would say this, had practiced the words, but the look of hope on John's face made it more difficult than he could have imagined. He swallowed hard. "The note said, 'Listen to the tape and you'll know how much I loved you. Finish my song.'" 

John hung his head. "I never listened to it. At first Yoko wouldn't let me, said it would make me depressed, and I guess that stuck with me all this time." He looked down and took a couple of fallen rose petals in his hand, crushing them and inhaling the fragrance on his fingers "Now I can't even find the damned thing - I hunted for it yesterday and I have no bloody idea what I've done with it." 

"It's with me," Ringo said breezily. "Or, rather, it's next to George's stereo. I pinched it from your house a couple of weeks ago when I came by for dinner and you told me you'd never played it. I thought it was about time." Ringo held his hand out to John. "You can go listen alone, or we can come with you. Whatever you want." 

"Together," John rasped. "I can't...not alone." 

George rose, grimacing as his knees creaked in protest, and helped John get up. "C'mon, old man."

The three of them went back to the studio and George loaded the tape on the deck. They sat down on the sofa, huddled together, preparing to hear the tape from sixteen years ago. 

It started with music. Paul's voice, as clear and fresh as they remembered it, sang _a capella._

> _Dear friend, what's the time?_  
>  _Is this really the borderline?  
>  __Does it really mean so much to you?  
>  __Are you afraid, or is it true?_  

George's heart thundered in his chest. He dimly heard Ringo sniffle. There was a shuffle on the tape, then Paul's guitar started to ring out through the speakers and he sang again. 

> _You gave me something I understand_  
>  _You gave me loving in the palm of my hand._  
>  _I can't tell you how I feel,_  
>  _My heart is like a wheel.  
>  _ _Let me roll it,  
>  _ _Let me roll it to you._

"It's fantastic," George whispered. It was so beautiful that he thought he might be in the Swarga Loka, the Good Kingdom. 

Paul's voice thickened on the next snippet. 

> _My heart is breaking for you, little lamb.  
>  _ _I can help you out  
>  _ _But we may never meet again._

There was no point in hiding the tears, George realized, because all three of them were weeping now. John sat forward, leaning over as if he wanted to wrap the sounds around himself. 

> _Tell me why, why, why do you make me so sad, so sad,  
>  _ _When you're the best friend a man has ever had?_

George glanced at the reel and saw that the tape was nearly at an end. Then he heard Paul speak in a low, intimate tone. 

"I loved you so much, Johnny. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything, for all of it." His breath was ragged, a sob that tore at George's heart. "There's one last bit, the one I want you to finish. Can you do that for me?" 

There was a pause, then they heard the piano as only Paul could play it, and a lovely, lilting melody filled the room. 

> _Whatever happened to the life that we once knew?_  
>  _Can we really live without each other?_  
>  _Where did we lose the touch  
>  __That seemed to mean so much?  
>  __Always made me feel so free._  

Paul's speaking voice, eerily calm, was the last thing they heard. "Finish my song, Johnny." 

The tape ran out, the take-up reel turning over and over and over as the three of them sat there. George felt John's fingers thread through his own and he gave John's hand a reassuring squeeze. On John's right, Ringo was leaning back against the sofa, his blue eyes swimming in tears. 

John was still crying, but with a smile breaking out on his face like sunlight through a storm. 

"I know what we need to do," John said, jumping up and reaching for a pad and pencil. 

***


	3. John

> The Telegraph  
>  June 18, 1992
> 
>  
> 
> It takes 5272 holes - patrons - to fill the Albert Hall, and ticket requests for tonight are more than double that number.
> 
> The Concert for Paul, in honor of the late Beatle's fiftieth birthday, is scheduled to begin at 19:00 this evening. Fans have formed lines around the block, hoping to get a returned ticket for the event that sold out within minutes of being announced in February.
> 
> As of press time, scheduled guest artists include: Peter Asher, Cilla Black, David Bowie, David Crosby, Roger Daltrey, Donovan, Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, Gerry Marsden, Graham Nash, Peter Noone, Keith Richards, Ronnie Spector, Pete Townshend, Gordon Waller, Charlie Watts, and Brian Wilson. Many more will join in via satellite from all around the world, including cellist Yo-Yo Ma and legendary operatic soprano Jessye Norman, both longtime admirers of McCartney's music.
> 
> Proceeds from the concert will go to the McCartney Foundation. Over thirty mental health clinics have opened worldwide since Linda McCartney and her daughters Heather and Mary began to make them their life's work in the mid 1980s, with at least a dozen more scheduled by the end of the decade.                                                  
> 
> Mary McCartney, best known as the baby peeking out of her father's coat on the back cover of his one solo album, is now more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it. She recently graduated from the prestigious Yale School of Art and has been named the photographer for the event honoring her father. Heather McCartney, who Paul adopted when he married Linda, has retreated to a private life with her biological father and is not expected to attend. 
> 
> Former Beatles Ringo Starr and George Harrison - who are including their sons Zak Starkey and Dhani Harrison in the musical lineup alongside the impressive list of luminaries - were the main organizers of the event to honor McCartney's life and work. Said Harrison, "We can think of no better way to remember our friend than by letting the worlds, the material and the spiritual alike, hear his music."
> 
> McCartney's former writing partner John Lennon will also be playing, performing in public for the first time in over ten years. Lennon, these days known more for his philanthropy than for his music, will be the final performer of the evening. The rumours that Lennon's estranged son Julian will also participate have not been substantiated.
> 
> The success of the Beatles' "Anthology" project, the proceeds from which also benefit the McCartney Foundation, has broken sales records worldwide and has contributed greatly to the buzz surrounding tonight's concert. It was five years in the making. Consisting of reminiscences from the three surviving Beatles, studio outtakes and alternate versions, and "new" Beatles songs created from the demo tapes McCartney willed to Lennon, the book, albums, and documentary have fueled Beatlemania to a level not seen since the tragic day in 1970 when McCartney took his own life.
> 
> The haunting single "Free as a Bird," which won the 1991 Grammy Award for Record of the Year, is set to be the penultimate number of the evening. The closing song has not been announced, but pundits are certain that the concert will end with McCartney's enduring anthem, "Let it Be."

*** 

The next person who came up to John and asked him how many holes it took to fill the Albert Hall was going to get punched in the face.

George and Ringo were well aware of how frightened John was of public performance so had they saved his songs for the end and spent the week rehearsing with everyone else in the band. John had survived a week of practicing alone until his hands were sore from long hours at the piano. His voice would normally be a cause for concern, but George's was the one everyone was whispering about as they passed him cups of hot tea laced with honey. George sounded strained, almost as he had during the disastrous "Dark Hoarse" tour almost twenty years ago. To anyone who asked in passing, George said he was just tired and would be fine. 

To John, George said he'd talk to him about it after the show. 

With a little over two hours to go before showtime, they were finally getting the entire ensemble together to go through "Let it Be." John looked up from the piano, stunned at the number of luminaries lined up to pay their respects to Paul after all this time. Some were old friends; others were too young to have remembered Paul as anything more than the legacy he left behind. 

Then there were "the girls," the four women who'd been damned fools enough to marry Beatles in those mad days. They had been delighted to be asked to sing backup, even Linda, who still remained shy of publicity after all these years. Pattie and Maureen and even Cynthia were fluttering around her like helpful butterflies, resplendent in vintage Quant and Davis clothing. 

Someone asked about checking sound one last time, so John tried to focus on his hands, to make them strike the keys exactly as Paul had done. He knew that there was a Beatles slideshow going on behind him but he couldn't bring himself to look at the pictures. He couldn't bear to see Paul's smiling face, young and untroubled and so, so in love with him. 

"John, love, can you sing a bit? We're not sure about the levels," Ringo asked from behind his drum kit. Zak was next to him, a sturdy, serious young man with an intensity to his playing that set him apart from his easy-going father. 

John thought about singing nonsense syllables to ease his nerves, but he knew there were reporters skulking around who would just love to add fuel to the "it's a bloody mess" fire that had haunted him for almost a quarter of a century. He sat up straight on the piano bench and enunciated each word clearly, keeping his voice as smooth and even as anxiety and lack of practice would allow. 

George was in fine form, playing his heart out on the solo that had caused such contention so many years ago. By his side was Dhani, who not only looked like his father but also possessed the same surprising maturity at fourteen. He was concentrating hard, strumming away on John's favourite acoustic. 

John had offered to let Julian play that guitar, but Julian demurred in favor of one of Paul's, loaned to him by George. John tried not to let that embitter him; he knew that Julian was only here at all because Cynthia had pleaded with him to "do it for Paul's sake." 

Long silences between John and Julian remained a way of life. When asked, neither one would name a reason, but John had his suspicions. He surmised that Julian harbored grievances that his talent had been overshadowed by the story of his emotionally distant father and the tragic end of the man who truly had been like a father to him. Now nearly thirty - the age John had been when Paul died - Julian was a bright but enigmatic man, too well reared by Cynthia to be caustic but too damaged by John to be truly loving. 

No, John thought as he watched Julian move closer to Dhani and show him an alternate fingering for the chord they were playing. That wasn't true. 

Julian had taken a shine to Dhani, treating him like a little brother. Even now, he was nodding encouragement to his protégé and smiling broadly. He smiled broader still as Mary lifted her camera past the footlights, and he tipped his head toward Dhani's so Mary could get a photo of the two of them together. 

Julian could be truly loving, but that love had to be earned. 

The song ended with a spotlight on John. He felt sweaty, his hands clammy and uncooperative. "I need a break - have you got the levels set?" he called into the darkness. 

Someone grunted an affirmative, so John got up from the piano and stretched. He turned his head just in time to see Paul's face beaming down at him from their first Ed Sullivan appearance. A wave of affection crashed over him; even after all this time, he still loved that face, that man who lived only in his memory and haunted his dreams. 

George unstrapped his guitar and handed it to a tech, then walked over to John. His face was lined with concern. "Are you gonna be okay?" he asked, his voice worn down to a thin rasp. 

"I ought to be asking you that," John muttered. "Seriously, man--" 

"Later," George said, casting a glance over his shoulder to where Dhani and Julian were chatting a mile a minute. "Mary wants to get some pictures before we get changed, is that okay?" 

It wasn't, but John was determined to make this evening as pleasant for Mary as he could. He owed her that much, at least. 

The group huddled together, dozens of artists all crammed in tightly with their arms around each other. Cynthia passed in front of John and he reached out to touch her shoulder. She smiled at him, fondly but warily, and went to stand next to Maureen and Ringo. Pattie linked her arm through John's on one side and George's on the other, making both men roll their eyes and mock-fight over her. Mary giggled as she took the photo, then called out, "How about the Beatles and their boys?" 

Zak came quickly to his father's side, and George drew Dhani into a one-armed hug. Julian stood awkwardly next to John, pointedly not touching him, turning slightly away. When he did make eye contact with John, it was with a cold nod, the type someone would give a casual acquaintance. 

"Stand closer to Uncle John," called Mary. Julian took a step toward his father, compliant yet distant, obeying only the letter of the law. 

John, who recognized the juvenile passive-aggressiveness all too well from his own young adulthood, shook his head and bit his lip to keep from laughing bitterly. There was no doubt that Julian was his father's son. God help them both.

"C'mon, Jules, take it down a notch," Zak grumbled under his breath. 

John saw Julian glance at Dhani and George, at how close they were in body and spirit, and a fleeting look of hunger overcame Julian's features. Sighing, he stood shoulder to shoulder with John. "Is that better?" There was a hint of warmth rising through the tone that had been so disdainful just moments before, and John saw a fragile glint of hope in Julian's eyes. 

Dhani was observing the interchange with his mouth hanging open. He snuggled even closer to his father, watching with intense, dark eyes as Julian slowly snaked an arm around John's shoulders. 

The contact made John tremble. He returned the embrace, running his hand up and down his son's arm. Christ, it was like gentling a skittish horse, John thought as his throat began to constrict. He longed to throw his arms around Julian but he knew what his own reaction would have been. It was better to let Julian do this in his own time. 

To let it be, as it were. 

"We should really be getting changed," Ringo said quietly after the shutter clicked a few times. "Have you got what you need, Mary?" 

When Mary smiled, her nose crinkled up a bit, just as Paul's used to. "I'll get some more backstage when you're all ready, then I'll go out into the audience for the show." 

Ringo herded George and John toward their dressing rooms, calling out for tea to be brought to George and "something a bit stronger" for John. 

"I don't drink very often," John said as he opened the door to his dressing room. 

"You will tonight," Ringo responded. "Just one, to steady your nerves. You've been bouncing around like a pinball all week." 

It was an apt description, John had to admit. He poked around with the various items on his make-up table, then turned to Ringo and asked, "What's the matter with George?" 

"He's fine, he'll talk to you--" 

"Bullshit, Ringo. You've been hovering over him all day. And you have that look." John pulled a face, widening his eyes and shaking his head until his hair flopped around like a doll's. 

Ringo sighed heavily, took off his ubiquitous sunglasses, and motioned for John to sit down. 

This wasn't going to be good. 

John perched on the edge of the table and leaned back on his hands. Ringo met his gaze, his blue eyes sorrowful. "Okay, but you can't tell him I said anything. There's a lump in his neck. They're going to do surgery next week." 

"Cancer?" John forced the word out. 

Nodding, Ringo said, "Probably. They think they're catching it pretty early, but it's still...fucking scary." 

"Jesus." John shook his head. "Poor guy. No wonder Dhani's clinging to him like a vine." 

"Yeah, he and Olivia are pretty freaked. But they didn't want anyone to know until this concert is over - they only told me because I was at their house when the test results came in. So, keep it here for tonight, eh?" Ringo tapped John's chest, above his heart. "I'm gonna go change and meditate for a bit. Break a leg, Johnny." 

"Yeah, you too." John sat down heavily, not really paying attention when the door opened and a glass appeared at his side. "Ta," he muttered to whoever had brought him the drink. 

"There's more." It was a light voice, accented with London and Connecticut. Mary. 

John swiveled around to look at her. It was still painful, even after all this time. She was tall and slim, with Paul's sad eyes set above Linda's firm mouth, and she wore her dark hair in a sleek ponytail. She carried a bouquet of blood-red roses in her hands. "They're from Dad." 

He knew she meant from Paul's grave at Friar Park, where George still lovingly tended the garden with Olivia and Dhani. Smiling at the gesture as much as the gift, John said, "I've never asked what kind these are. They smell amazing." 

"They're 'Mister Lincoln' roses from the States. Whenever I'm staying with Mum in London, Olivia always sends me armloads." She leaned forward and inhaled the fragrance. 

"Can you remember him at all?" John asked, and when Mary shook her head he felt a pang shoot through his body, an arrow of guilt. "He was a lovely man. He'd be so proud of you tonight." 

Mary sat cross-legged on the floor and looked up at John with those wide, multi-colored eyes that took his breath away. "Did you love him?" 

Christ. 

"With all my heart," John said simply. 

Mary bit her lip and inclined her head slightly downward, a Paul-gesture that seemed wired into her genes. "Heather told me some stories. Bits and pieces. About how Dad fell apart when the Beatles were about to break up. About how he'd come home crying." She traced a line across her slacks with a fingernail. "She said you hated him, at the end, and it killed his heart. That's why she wouldn't come tonight." 

John's hand flew to his chest, trembling there. He slid off the chair and crouched in front of Mary, ducking his head so she could see his face. "Oh, sweetheart, that's...that's not how it was at all. We were all right bastards then. We were too young and too doped up to cope with being in the shitshow the Beatles were becoming. But even at the very worst, we didn't hate each other. Never." He reached out and cupped Mary's chin. "I loved Paul. I loved him very, very much." 

She was crying. They both were. She pulled away, but gently, and put her smooth hands over his. "But did he know?"

 _Finish my song, Johnny._

"I hope so, love." 

The intercom went off, the stage manager announcing thirty minutes to curtain. Mary straightened her hair as she rose. She patted her pockets, then shook her head and wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. 

"Your dad never had anything, either," John said with a wry smile as he handed a ball of tissues to Mary. "Do I need to hold them and tell you to blow, like I did him?" 

Mary's smile was brilliant. She flung her arms around him, wrapping him in an almost-Paul embrace but with a hint of cut flowers and lip gloss in the air around her. "Tell him before it's too late. Julian. Tell him," she said as she made long-legged strides out the door. 

John sat down again and applied foundation to his pale face to give it a semblance of ruddy health. He combed his hair - falling out in greying auburn wisps now that he was past fifty - and took a long swallow of the scotch-and-Coke. 

He knew that Mary and Julian were friends, that Julian confided in Mary the way he used to do with her father. Years ago, Yoko had tried to arrange a sort of studio romance between the two, but Julian had seen right through her ruse and refused to compromise the friendship for the sake of publicity. John clearly recalled the furious look on Julian's face when he'd told Yoko to go fuck herself and stormed out of the Dakota. 

"He's got more balls than his old man," John said to himself. 

The stage manager called for places, so John took a seat on a stool in the wings, watching with a grateful heart as his friends and colleagues paid tribute to Paul through his songs.

Ringo had called the lineup of musicians, over forty in all, "the best tribute band in the whole fucking world," and he wasn't wrong. Despite the flurry of emotions he was feeling, John couldn't help but hum along as the group did a long set of Paul's music. 

If Paul had only understood how much he was loved, how much his music meant to people he respected, perhaps he wouldn't be in - what was it called again? Oh, the Twenty-Seven Club. So much talent, gone far too soon, while people like John got to bumble along for decades in mediocrity. 

Whoa, where had that come from? 

John felt the first skitters of panic in his bloodstream. 

The duet of Donovan singing "Yesterday" with Bob Dylan accompanying him on guitar was the signal that John's part was coming up. The stage manager stepped in front of him, smiling, and said, "Three minutes, Mr. Lennon." 

Three minutes. A lifetime. John breathed in through his nose and out of his mouth, working his jaw from side to side to keep it loose. He could see the slideshow from a space between two curtains, Paul and Paul and Paul and Paul, eternally young and beautiful. And gone, lost to him, lost to everyone. Only the music remained. 

Then Ringo's baritone called out: "Ladies and Gentlemen - John Lennon." 

He had to go on. 

The crowd was roaring its approval as John made his way to the grand piano, pausing with his hand on the lid and saluting his bandmates. He willed his hands to cooperate, his voice to stay strong. For Paul.  

> "Free as a bird,  
>  It's the next best thing to be  
>  Free as a bird." 

Paul's voice took over in the middle eight, the elegiac fragment of his last song. The effect of hearing Paul on the enormous speakers, surrounding everyone with the plaintive passion of his voice, was devastating. John was relieved that he had time to take several deep breaths before he had to sing the final verse. 

He let the last notes ring away on the piano, then lifted his right hand and blew a kiss at the photo of Paul on the screen. 

 _I finished your song, Paulie._  

For a horrible second the giant auditorium was stone silent. John's blood froze, his hands trembling over the keyboard. Then, as one, the entire audience rose to its feet, clapping and shouting for joy. 

The deafening roar spread amongst the performers onstage. John felt someone drag him to his feet and plant him facing the audience. Dylan. Dylan was poking him in the ribs, saying, "Talk to 'em. They've been waiting all night for you." 

Half-blinded by the stage lights and his own tears, John bowed and crossed his hands over his heart. He took tentative steps toward George's microphone, which was the closest to him, and lifted his head to the top balcony. 

"Thank you," he said, then he cleared his throat and continued, grateful for George's steadying warmth at his side. "Thank you for listening, and for loving Paul as much as we did. I only wish..." 

He could see Mary, camera next to her face, nodding for him to continue. 

"I only wish I'd told him more often. I wish I'd told everyone." He reached out and squeezed George's shoulder, then looked back at Ringo. "I love you guys." 

"We love ya back!" Ringo shouted heartily. George shook his hair in front of his face as he always did when embarrassed. 

John took a deep breath and turned to his son. "I love you, Julian," he said softly. He heard Cynthia's gasp, but his eyes were too blurry to see Julian's reaction. 

"Thing is," John said into the microphone, the words tumbling out of him like wild horses begging to be released, "if you love someone, you need to tell them. Because you never know when it's going to be too late." 

His head buzzing, mouth dry, John went back to the piano and signaled that he was ready to begin. The chords to "Let it Be," as familiar as his own name, shimmered under his fingers, but when he began to sing his voice started to fail him. 

> "When I find myself in times of trouble..." 

He continued playing the opening line over and over, tears splashing over his hands onto the keys. He watched them fall. Then he saw another pair of hands next to his, pale, with long fingers, and for a moment he wondered if he was hallucinating Paul. 

But it was Julian, sitting by his side, playing in tandem with him, a shy smile on his lips. "Mother Mary comes to me," he sang in his clear tenor, and suddenly John could have sung anything, done anything. He was flying free as a bird.   
  
They continued the ballad together in perfect synchronization, ignoring the dozens of other players who were following joyously along.  

> "Let it be, let it be, let it be, oh, let it be,  
>  There will be no sorrow, let it be." 

Julian nudged his arm and whispered, "I love you too, Dad." 

John blinked at him, stunned, then looked up just in time to see Mary capturing the moment between them. 

> "There will be an answer, let it be." 

As rose petals and confetti began to fall from the ceiling, as John found himself being held in his son's arms, as Paul's face beamed down on them both, he knew what it was to be loved. To be at peace.

To be amazed.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With undying gratitude to Bakerstreetafternoons for beta services even when she had no lights or water for a week. You deserve your own tribute concert at the Albert Hall!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings below.
> 
> S
> 
> P
> 
> O
> 
> I
> 
> L
> 
> E
> 
> R
> 
> S
> 
> There was a suicide in the first story in the series, and it is referenced during this story. No graphic details are given.
> 
> There is mention of film footage of the suicide but it is not described in any way.
> 
> Some characters have alcohol and/or drug addictions.
> 
> Marital infidelity is discussed but not described.
> 
> Some characters use profanity.


End file.
